Ardent Yet Chill And Formal,

Music Sets Up Ladders, It Makes Us Invisible, It Sets Us Apart, It Lets Us Escape; But From The Visible There Is No Escape.

In My Garden The Winds Have Beaten The Ripe Lilies; In My Garden, The Salt Has Wilted The First Flakes Of Young Narcissus.

The Quivering Of Psyche's Butterflies.

O Beautiful White Land, Olives And Wild Anemone And Violet Mingled Among The Shale, And Purple Wings Of Little Winter-butterflies Say, Here Psyche, The Soul, Lies.

Love, Why Have You Sought The Horde Of Spearsmen, Why The Tent Achilles Pitched Beside The River-ford?